


The Dark Inside Me

by Findora1020



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Top Gellert Grindelwald
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-12 00:58:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16863229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Findora1020/pseuds/Findora1020
Summary: But really he(Grindelwald) sits very much at the center of Dumbledore ‘s desires but also the darkest part of himself.— Jude Law, 2018 SDCC





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note this work is a translation of《The Dark Inside Me》by一颗柠檬多少坑 with permission.  
> (http://jofing.lofter.com/post/2f2903_12c7c60a9)

In less than two hours after Gellert Grindelwald left Godric’s Hollow, the endless battle between him and Albus Dumbledore started.

Before it happened, Albus took some time to rescue his sister. Aberforth looked at him wishfully, with a strange expression on the face. At some point, Albus faintly recognized that it belonged to a blind faith of a normal 15-year old boy in his brother. However, the expression, as well as the temperature on the pale skin of Ariana, gradually turned into despairing coldness. Albus laid the stiffening body on the floor, while Aberforth turned to him with compressed lips and scarlet burns left by Crucio on his arms. If he was to punch him, Albus would never resist. However, Aberforth picked up the body of their sister, walking into the room without one glance. Albus realized that he lost them two at the same time, and he also lost another person, who he doubted whether he had ever owned him.

He let himself clean the house, covering up the trace of unforgivable curses and magic explosion, or the truth would sent his family to prison (“Family.” He repeated thisword mechanically). His brain was extraordinary that now it could still work methodically. He needed to purchase a coffin, select a tombstone, and arrange a funeral, and be ready to ask for help, win sympathy, and make up an excuse, which was what he did for his mother who did the same to his father. Lies and manipulation, the experienced skills belonged to the Dumbledores, whom he had been eager to escape at any risk. Then Albus cleared up the murder scene without any omissions left. He opened the door, and the heat and the light of summer hit him right in the face, which felt like a massive snap that his head span dizzily with the buzzing in the ear.

“You and I, we are always together.” He suddenly recalled in dizziness. The vigorous voice of Gellert was bright and firm, piercing his heart from his back like a cold knife. There followed the second one, “We could own the world.”; the third one, “Nothing can stop us.” Albus couldn’t hold up his head. He trotted along the path, fleeing in panic from his countless wild dreams that were chasing him.

 

* * *

 

After the funeral, Albus Dumbledore deserted his hometown. He feared the rumors, but he feared himself more. Indeed, he was treated much better compared with in the days when Percival was jailed. He was an outstanding young man, who lost another relative in one luckless accident. Therefore, to him people expressed sympathy rather than jeers, which was more unbearable— when he was a son of a prisoner, he stood with pride for he knew that he did nothing wrong. His sacrifice was to protect his vulnerable families. He knew he had seen through everything, and those who mocked and hurt him for that were guilty instead. But this time, the convicted was him. Lies were told out of heinous desires; heart was broke by shame, which made him want to bend down in every deserted corner. But prying eyes were everywhere. “I haven’t taught you that.” When he explained the whole story to the guests of the funeral, the unemotional voice of his mother reminded him over his shoulder. “Some of you would bring disgrace on magic.” When he picked up his wand used for hiding the evidence, he heard the words from the professor of Transfiguration. As the first handful of soil was cast on the tiny coffin, there appeared a vague sketch of the haggard face of Percival Dumbledore in front of the grave, sorrowfully gazing at him.

At the end of the funeral, Aberforth finally showed up. Albus had thought that he would talk about something else: “I saw you go to Bagshot’s home.” His brother said, “You still believe he would come back?”

Albus was speechless, but he couldn’t lie to Aberforth, at least not for this time.

“I just thought,” he responded:” perhaps...”

Aberforth punched him in the face.

Albus didn’t take care of his nose. The continuous pain was the last piece of prestige from his broken family, and might be the last love as well. His brother was outspoken and kind, willing to grant him enough hatred to reveal the truth, to see through what he was: a swaggering young man who thought he was able to control all the power over this huge universe but couldn’t support a smallest family in reality. Once he considered his family as a quagmire, a burden from which he thought he could be saved by his faculties. But was he really the genius that he had originally thought?

In the turbulent years of his growing up, the confidence in his gift supported the spiritual world of Albus Dumbledore as a rigid pillar, which was broken mercilessly right now. He was unable to shoulder the responsibility, to control himself, to recognize a coward, a liar, or a beast. He began to wonder whether the sincere praise was a game in his ivory of tower. Was he really extraordinary, or only being self-complacent? What if he was exactly one of the despised idiots who were always complaining the lack of opportunities, but were doomed to go nowhere.

He heard his words of past, then he reevaluated them. The empty talks out of arrogance, the cruel illusions of ignorance: capturing the masses through intelligence and power— but how could he know if he was part of them? Why should he stand above the thousand ordinary grieve and joy? When he dashed to earth, he finally realized the sorrow from banality, and the life in it.

A new stage was added to his pain— the shame on his ignorance of himself. The shame followed him as the shadow, lighting him like a worm under the candlelight. Even on bright days, in the middle of the busiest street, the proud voice of Grindelwald came to him with flashes of spells: “The priority of wizards; for the greater good; your sister is a drag.” And foolishly, he echoed the every word he said, which now lashed his back like whips, made his mind stagnant and his body stiff in every common moment, and frozen still by the misery and embarrassment surging through him.

Gradually, he realized that he had to fight with the shadows brought by these memories of guilty for life. He labored along as a frustrated traveler with thick tangled hair and scars on the face. Those voices were still haunting him, but he was able to bear with time.

He met wizards, muggles, goblins, and other mysterious sentient species. He ventured deep into the boundless field of magic, relying on the knowledge of his ignorance rather than that of his talents— for the latter was limited, but the former went without end. “You are not so stupid as a wizard.” commented the queen of giants, the species which couldn’t count from one to five. “I merely understood human-beings in the past, but now I understand wolves too.” said the leader of werewolf, whose face was like a poet of depression in the daylight. Merpeople induced him to dive into the water; dragons extended their wings on the plain; thunderbirds brought furious storms with howling. “ You are so young but respectful to the different things. You must have undergone horrible disasters.” said the centaur, who pointed him the trace of Mars, dark tail hair swinging beneath the starlight.

“Not quite.” said Albus. Humility was instilled in him, while arrogance had supported him in past times. He comprehended that though the misery haunted him day and night, it was not the fiercest kind in the world.

 

* * *

 

Albus met the beauties. A witch with tousled hair, a wizard of lidded eyes, and a snaker in the bar reaching out her hand with the scale pattern like water ripple on her neck. He was almost caught by the temptation more than once: a lonely heart desiring for tenderness. He sit by the table; before the words were told, uneasiness crowded in him: what was hidden behind the pretty faces? Could they see through him? Could they understand him? In whose eyes he was totally naked? He could put on different looks, block his mind, but he would never know the truth. Suspicion and wariness pierced through his head like thousands of needles, reminding him what an idiot he was. Would they ever notice the desperate beg for love in his eyes? Was contempt concealed behind their smiles?

He had the same powerful magic to see strangers in their true colors, which disturbed him even more. When he stared at the sincere faces, the familiar feelings dizzied him— did _he_ stared at him in the same way? An observer of lofty disdain controlled the secrets of which you weren't aware. The love bred in passion, the forbidden fruit, was estimated thoroughly at the beginning?

Falsehood resulted in contempt, while sincerity led to horror. The possibility of being manipulated made him frightened, while the desire of controlling others made him sick. Love was such a double-edge sword that it hurt him from all sides. He couldn’t develop any relationship with anyone. He run away.

He consoled himself in the darkened room with eyes closed, pretending there existed nothing. But even in the short comfort he had nowhere to hide. The ghost appeared behind him, and the whispers rang in his ears. The memories flashed back in his mind, where they had been engraved: the prominent collarbone of Gellert Grindelwald, the wet hair in melting gold, eyes of wolf; the sweat dropped on his shoulder, like a seal. “Do you enjoy it?” he asked eagerly, clasping his shoulders and looking into his eyes, like discovering another complex spell. Albus was obsessed, and proud with this manner, “Do you like it?”

Horrible memories cracked his mask of detachment. He struggled to rise, with howls in rage and exploded magic power raising the forfeitures in the air. Books and herbs were scattered all over, and the floor was cracked and fractured. Albus stood barefooted in a mess, which was like a metaphor of his life. With the rumble of thunder and the sharp chirping of insects outside, Albus went to bed in dead silence, as the noises deep from his heart died down.


	2. Chapter 2

When he was a teenager, Dumbledore had no response from Nicolas Flamel. But when he wandered aimlessly in a strange land, he received a precious invitation. He was invited to that mysterious chamber. “I love meeting young people.” said Nicolas Flamel, whose shrunken fingers curled in his gray robe. Crafty was behind his sincere smile, “I love watching their minds.”

And there Albus saw the Mirror of Erised for the first time.

Of course he heard of this mirror before. He read words describing it when he was younger, imagining what he would see in it. As a boy who considered himself extraordinary, he never thought about emotions or power in the earthliness. What attracted him must be something more unconventional and more honorable. He would reshape the future of wizards, and discover the mysteries of magic in depth, or at least, free his families from suffering. But now, after so many years, he no long thought so. When he looked into the mirror, he only had one strong, humbling desire: he wanted his family back in the visions.

But they weren’t.

 

What in the mirror was Grindelwald, who was in the same way when he couldn’t find the address of Bathilda and left the luggage on the doorsteps of the Dumbledores. The impatient look, the bright eyes, the rolled-up sleeves; his wand was placed on his ear. He glanced at the locked house, reluctantly maintaining the least courtesy. Then he raised one hand— 

 

He stepped back, nearly knocking over the table which richly piled with valuable alchemy equipment for centuries. Nicholas Flamel stood aside, giving a caring smile. Albus doubted whether this was in his plan: an old man over four hundred years old took his amusement in reading young people’s minds who were grateful instead. “Sometimes we will see the unpleasant truth, don’t take it seriously.” said the alchemist.

But Albus couldn’t. This terrible shame was a denial to his suffering for the past decades, no less than the heavy blow of the end of that summer from the real world. Guilty and anxiety overwhelmed him. Did he ever change? Did he still adore him? Narrow and pathetic his mind was. After all these years what he wanted was to escape from his bedroom?

He recalled his life of past, and in fear he found it obscure during the process of self reconciliation. Recollecting his memories, he saw an unqualified son and brother: he hated the strict rules of his mother, despised his talentless brother, and his dragging sister. What he got was he truly deserved.

But he kept them firmly in mind, forcing himself to remember the painful chapters of penitence and betrayal. Time and time again he saw himself shunning his mother and siblings, walking up the stairs to his attic filled with awards, then he was overwhelmed by feelings of guilt, at nights in a mixture of reality and illusions. One month later, he showed up again, with a pale face and a strong will, and asked the alchemist for the mirror which showed the deepest desire in his heart.

 

There was a figure in the mirror. Sitting by the gravestones in the darkness, his hair was whipped by the evening breeze. Suddenly he turned his head with the gleams in his eyes, like an alert eagle.

 

“No.” said Albus.

“Usually people will not see what they want as they originally thought.” said the alchemist. “It will only reflect our true minds. The mirror doesn’t know what is right or wrong, or what the reflect means, which will be answered by you, young Dumbledore. You own your heart.”

“Then I can change it.” said Albus.

His words were torn apart at the tip of the tongue by the force that could make steel ripped. When the world crumbled in front him, he never revealed such strong hatred and determination at that time. But Flamel just looked at him in sympathy.

“Oh,” said the old man, “oh, that’s strange, my friend. It sounds possible, but they just can’t.”

 

* * *

 

Albus came back to his hometown, with the Mirror of Erised in his package. “Miracles of magic should be given to the people in need.” said Nicolas. Albus accepted it. He applied for a job in Hogwarts, merely to find a peaceful place away from people to deal with himself. The magnificent castle was steeped in history and legend. However, when he was a student, he never thought about living in it for long. He knew that he was like a soaring phoenix, never staying under a permanent shelter. But now times had changed. He swore he would never leave this castle until the evil figure was erased.

The Sorting Hat put him in Gryffindor, which was a puzzle for him. The record of his father made others think he was a supporter of pure blood, and he had a hard time in Gryffindor. He also had the desire and the horizon of Ravenclaw, with good command of forbearance and calculating of Slytherin, yearning for the sincerity and care of Hufflepuff, but he never saw the courage and openness of Gryffindor in himself. Grown up secretly in a dark family, what he learnt was silence, compromise and endless patience. In a short period, Albus thought finally he revealed the characters of Gryffindor, he dared to show the real side and throw caution to chase his love— facts proved that it was totally wrong.

At nights free from work, he walked down the concealed corridor, raised the curtain, and faced the mirror. The face of Grindelwald was real and vague, like gleams on the mirror, or a stubborn shadow. Albus stood in front of the visions, in the same way he did to the suffering remaining unchanged. But when the skins around his eyes began to wrinkle, he still couldn’t erase _him_ from the mirror.

He never thought about teaching before, but in fact he did it well. He understood the kids who were victims of bullying, and the teenagers who behave in a supercilious manner, though his work was kind of insignificant and boring sometimes. At the beginning, his colleagues appreciated him for his teaching methods and excellent performances. But soon, people showed less attention. Big shots of today appeared in the newspapers, and there were always new topics for students to gossip about. What drew their attention was the academic awards, the dueling competition, and the international forums rather than a witty professor. When days became long and dull, he realized that how he was used to being the focus of crowds. He could easily win prizes, gain reputation, and get brilliant achievements. Why not?

He wrote papers, published research, and attended conventions. Then he was under the spotlight. The storm of applause greeted him, and fame was ripe for picking. The whole world was open to true genius. It tasted so sweet that he was almost addicted. Once he wanted it, he could have it— the same as they predicted at that time.

 _They_. He realized that he was using this word. The returned nightmare shocked him out of satisfaction. He heard the evil voices back in his mind, the cracks of whips under the burning sun, freezing him as a statue. Destiny was a huge cruel mystery, and finally he discovered the tip of the iceberg in fear. He burned the drawings, torn up the papers, and threw the magazines with his interviews to the fireplace. Books in the classroom fell on the storage shelves, triggering a collapse like dominoes. A Boggart picturing his fear went out of the case, fragmenting and gathering like smoke. Albus pulled out his wand, waiting for it to show his perpetual nightmare, which combined death, desire, oblivion, resentment…… But he allowed himself a wry smile when he saw the creature.

 

Newt Scamandar, a fifth-grader, suddenly burst in.

“Professor Dumbledore！“ he said, “ I’d like to ask you something—”

He stood there dumbfounded, for the Boggart was like a reflection of his professor. Albus Dumbledore faced what he feared the most: Albus Dumbledore himself, in the same fully dressed and with the same gentle smile.

Albus said, “Riddikulus.”

 

* * *

 

In the first few days, he didn’t remember the vow he made with Grindelwald. It seemed so insignificant then, nothing more than another promise when he was held spellbound. The brief fervent affection was a massive black hole, consuming up his remaining closet relatives, his armor for the battle, and the peaceful nights in the rest of his life. How could he ever remember a trivial drop of blood which held the love of teenager on that long list?

But even in the days of self-doubt, the possibility still existed deep in his heart. He worried that eventually Grindelwald would begin to do what they had planned before. He worried he would succeed. He worried he would ruin the old world which they considered hopeless. He worried if he still remembered the promises he gave. No, he knew he would make it. He knew he would start a war. He knew he had to face him in the end, and at that moment the horrible mistakes of their youth would be exposed to the whole world immediately.

News spread from afar. Eager green forests, restless dark valleys, silent blue ice sheets; ghosts insisting the supremacy of magic power lingered after the World War. Students and friends brought him the information all over the world, and he heard something familiar. Though hidden in this small island, he wove the wings which stretched over the continent. He dithered about spreading them. About thirty years ago he approached the sign of the wind. If the fire was to burn the earth without forecasting the spark, he would be culpable.

Albus went to New York.

He didn’t get a title from the ministry, but he already won enough reputation to attend the banquet. The dignitary were arrogant and ignorant about the changing world. He stopped in the corner with dim light to avoid the crowd, and alleviated the pressure of bearing numerous useless information. Someone touched his shoulder.

“Professor.” the man said.

When the dark eyes looked at him, he saw the flashes of past. “Professor Dumbledore.” Percival Graves said in the drawling tone, a kind of smile forming on his lips. Albus stood still, while trying to step forward or backward. His hand approached the wand, and Grindelwald suddenly grabbed his arm. He was close like a demon out of the abyss. The fake mask cracked, and his ghostly eyes were shining. Albus looked into his eyes; he felt irritated, fear, hopeless, and dizzy. Spells were halted; he saw doubles; the cracks of whips still rang in the ears, the echoes of screams in the past.

“Is that you?” Grindelwald whispered softly, “my other, my love? Are you here to achieve what we’ve dreamt about?”

He answered, “I’m here to stop you.”

They looked at each other in silence. The clod air gradually closed in. Grindelwald smiled. His soft tone, suggestive postures, the alluring atmosphere all disappeared immediately. He took the serious look of Minister Graves again. He backed away gracefully, flicking his collar. Albus saw the crystal pendant was put in the inner pack of his waistcoat, decorated with gold chains.

His acquaintance said flatly, “You know you can’t.”

 

Albus fled to London that very night, across the channel and fog, into the castle surrounded with lakes and forests. Hogwarts accepted him like covering for a child in panic. He rushed into the room with the Mirror of Erised, removed the curtains, and forced himself to look into the dangerous mirror. The fog vanished, and Grindelwald stared at him. The figure of a teenager gradually fade away to be replaced by that of an elder one, a more dangerous and mature one. Albus sat on the ground, gave a feeble smile— for the crazy mind and the tragic life. Power, cause, fame and love. From the highest vault of the sky to the smallest personal space, the center of his pain and desire, stood Grindelwald.

**Author's Note:**

> Translator: If you notice any mistakes in grammar or in expression, please comment down to tell me. Thanks for reading, folks.


End file.
